that, at the moment, were actively seeking the X-Jet and its passengers. Apparently the X-Jet’s chameleon coating could fool cameras and the human eye but not radar or infrared guidance technology.
A voice in his ear interrupted John’s frantic concentration. “Got a minute?”
“Not now, Sparky. Hands’re kinda full,” he barked. Dropping to the other side of the bridge, he tried to hold the X-Jet steady as another missile’s proximity fuze gave the suicide order. Four lanterns shattered atop their posts.
“So I gather. Listen. Things are hotting up like nobody’s business and we are bugging out. You want the good news or the bad news?” In the background John could hear people shouting. A car door slammed. Jen was breathing hard. John couldn’t concentrate.
“No time for jokes, talk to Jane.”
Jane took over the earpiece, without enthusiasm. “OK, go.”
“Congratulations. Every member of the British Armed Forces not nailed down at the parade route is headed in your direction,” Jen informed her. “Coming by land, sea, and air. They’re going to close every bridge from Battersea to Canary Wharf and shut down anything that’s moving on or near the river.”
“Well that certainly sucks,” Jane said. John was keeping the X-Jet low over the water on the theory that the radar was designed to detect airborne threats and would have a hard time differentiating the X-Jet from buildings and ground clutter. “But it’s not like anybody told us there was an air defense web in this part of town.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re working on that.” She turned aside to say to someone else, “No, try 1030 GHz. Crap, it’s not even encrypted. What the fuck?”
“Or that we had friends visiting from back home,” Jane continued.
“Be nice to me. I can’t type as fast when you’re being mean, and if I don’t get this old video footage loaded on the MPS surveillance system we’re all going down,” Jen pouted. “Just keep your pom-poms on, we’re sending reinforcements. And you’re gonna love Plan B.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“There’s a boat heading downriver.”
“Boat,” Jane pointed to the only craft in sight. It was hard to miss. A smallish tourist barge, painted bright yellow with an oversized plastic duck’s head affixed to its prow. It was just passing under the Westminster Bridge. “And?”
“Land on it.”
“Land on it?” Jane looked up at John, who was holding the X-Jet about five feet off the surface of the Thames.
“Tell Leo he’s got five minutes to get you to the exit. Starting - now. Capisce?”
“Leo. Five minutes. Roger that. Sort of.”
But Jen was gone and John was already riding the barge’s wake. He zipped under the bridge close behind it and at an altitude just high enough to maneuver the X-Jet onto a square bit of roof without having to pop back up into missile alley. The moment they touched down, the pilot of the barge opened the throttle wide. The engine noise and turbulence increased, but the acceleration was barely noticeable. She had a flat bottom as well as a flat roof, after all. She wasn’t built for speed.
A hatch in the roof flipped back and out popped the torso of - a white duck in an admiral’s uniform, genuine beaver-covered bicorn hat included.
“Pryvet!” said the duck in flawless Russian. Then, in English, “Welcome aboard!” [“Hey there!”]
“Kak dela?” Jane said. “And Jen says we have about four minutes to get wherever we’re going.” [“Wazzup?”]
John pointed at the X-Jet. “Should we tie this sucker down?”
The duck waved at the X-Jet dismissively. “Is made with 3D printer. What happens happens. And we have world of time. Sign here.” It made no sense, but rather than waste time arguing, Jane and John took the clipboard the duck was holding and hastily put their Hancocks on a creamy white document embellished with multiple stamps and seals. “Come,” the duck said, as they passed the London Eye. “We were just getting to the good part.”
Following the duck down a folding ladder into the boat, John and Jane found a buslike interior, basically a tin can lined with a double row of benches separated by a center aisle. The pilot’s seat was forward and the duck had returned to sit in it, steering against the current toward the middle of the channel and the silvery spider webs of the Jubilee Bridges. Someone coughed, and John and Jane turned to find Vinnie and Angela posed together in the stern of the boat like a bride and groom on a wedding cake.
“Vincent Giancarlo Amato,” said the duck, over his shoulder, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together from this day forward in an exclusive estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others keep only unto her so long as you both may live?”
Vinnie paused, appearing to think deeply. Angela put one hand on her hip and tapped her foot. As if blown by a hundred breezes, the feathers on her dress fluttered and then were still. Vinnie grinned and raised the hand he was holding to his lips. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” he promised.
“Angela Burns Smith,” the duck continued, “wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband to live together from this day forward in an exclusive estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others keep only unto him so long as you both may live?”
“Hell to the yes,” Angela vowed.
In the front of the boat, the duck stood up and took off his head. It was Leo of course, in a cartoonish duck costume, but a serious, scowling Leo, who checked the rearview mirror and then rubbed at the front windshield with his clumsy fuzzy hands, and spoke more quickly. “Then with the power invested in me, I now pronounce you shackled for life. You may buss the bride - and get ready to rumble.” As he spoke, an array of fast-moving black dots appeared on the glinting surface of the river behind them. Inflatable speedboats skimming the water at nearly double the pace of the duck boat.
“He left out fascism or democracy,” Vinnie said, taking Angela’s radiant face in both hands.
“And pumpernickel or rye,” Angela complained, closing her eyes as Vinnie leaned in to seal the deal.
“But the real question, “ John insisted, inspecting the contents of a couple of large wooden boxes, “is submachine gun or grenade launcher?”
“Who says Christmas comes but once a year?” Jane exclaimed, handing him a Russian APS underwater assault rifle and a handful of steel darts. “But isn’t this against Anon rules?”
Machine gun fire rattled the rear of the boat like bb’s on aluminum siding.
“Isn’t that against EU rules?” Angela gasped, coming up for air and fingering a bullet hole. Vinnie picked up an MP5 and a high capacity magazine. “When did ‘shoot first’ become standard operating procedure?”
“Always read fine print,” Leo asserted, grimly churning toward Waterloo Bridge and the Victoria embankment. “Deadly force OK if for defense only.”
Angela gingerly examined a Czech pistol. “What happens if we hit something?” She instinctively dropped to the floor as John and Vinnie aimed out the rear window flaps and began to return fire.
“Points off, and a fine. Up to six figures per glad bag.”
“Oh man. I hate to lose. And what the hell is this?” Jane held up a pink HELLO-KITTY AK-47. “OK, for once, I’ll take the girl gun. By the way, I think we have like two minutes?” she warned, raising her voice to be heard over the gunfire. “If anybody’s counting.”
“Yeah, baby!” John crowed. He ejected the clip and began to reload. “One rubber ducky down.”
“That was a two-fer,” Vinnie said, as the lead boat spun out and crashed into its starboard mate. “But the other three are still on our six. And closing.”
“Are we there yet?” Angela said plaintively.
“E
bat’ kopat’,” Leo breathed. Up ahead loomed Waterloo Bridge. Squads of heavily armed troops were converging upon it, double-time, from either end. And beyond the bridge, high in the dirty woolen sky, a grey Lynx helicopter beat toward them like certain death. [“Holy shit!”]
“How much farther?” Jane asked, kneeling beside him and hugging the grenade launcher. Because under the circumstances HELLO-KITTY just wasn’t going to cut it.
“Under this bridge, halfway to the next. See that red dot?” He pointed to a speck in the distance.
“Can we abort and go overland? That pier over there? Because we are not getting past those guys. Unless - ” She bolted for the ladder. John beat her to it.
“No way.”
“X-Jet or it’s over. Down here we’re sitting ducks. We need air superiority. For two seconds. Move!”
Her logic was irrefutable. “I’ll drive, you shoot.” He pushed back the hatch, and raised his head by inches to peer out cautiously.
The pursuit boats were coming in wide from the left and right. Vinnie was having a hard time covering both of them. “I always knew you’d leave me for her,” he jibed.
Angela rolled a couple of smoke grenades toward Vinnie before settling elegantly into John’s vacated spot, resting an M4A1 carbine on the window ledge. “Awww. Just think. Our first mortal combat as man and wife” she said fondly.
Vinnie ripped the canisters open and dropped them, clanging, onto the back deck, where they spun,